bedtime: a clusterfuck fable
OK so it's bedtime. My first bedtime without Ryan.
Right here is where I become a woman.
Buster is in Chicken's crib, lying on the Boppy, wrapped in a blanket. He's sound asleep.
I have lured Chicken into the bedroom with the siren call of "It's binky time."
I got this. Buster will stay asleep. Chicken gets a diaper, jammies, 3 stories, and a soothing rendition of "Baa Baa Black Sheep." I'll take the still-sleeping Buster out of the crib, lay him on the floor, put Chicken in the crib, give him a kiss, tuck him in, collect Buster from the floor, and lights out. Boom.
Oh yeah. I got this.
Why is Chicken's butt damp? Oh. It's poop juice. Chicken has a blowout.
And oh. The diaper genie is full.
Buster starts to whimper.
If I try to cram the diaper into the full diaper genie I will just get shit all over my hands. FOOL ME ONCE, diaper genie. So the shitty diaper goes on top of the diaper genie. Close enough.
Buster starts crying.
Chicken is trying to roll over on the shit-smeared diaper changing pad. I am holding him down using my actual muscles and not caring that using actual muscles to restrain a 2-year-old might make me a child abuser in some states.
I croon "Baby Beluga" while wiping poop juice off of Chicken's back, legs, and feet. Note to self: no more grapes for a little while.
Buster is now wailing.
"I HEAR YOU BUSTER!" I coo over the sound of his screams. "I HEAR YOU SWEET BOY! I HAVE TO FINISH CLEANING SHIT OFF YOUR BROTHER AND THEN I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!"
Chicken: "Shit? Brother?"
Me: "YEP! Shit brother. Did I stutter?"
Buster: WWAAAAAAAH!
Chicken: "Shit? Stutter?"
Buster: WWAAAAAAAAAH!
Me: "Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea..."
I get Chicken's pajamas on and set him down on the ground. "Go pick a book for mommy to read, sweetheart!" I say, making a leap across the room to plug Buster with a binky. Aaaaah. Silence.
Whoops, he spat it out.
OK, back in. Aaah. Silence.
Shit, back out again.
Seriously, it's amazing how well this binky works! It's back in and he's quiet as a--
SON OF A!
Now I am standing over a 2-week-old using my actual hand muscles to hold a binky in his mouth while he makes the stinkiest of all stink faces. "I KNOW you want Boob Milk but I have to give Chicken some attention right now or... wait... what is Chicken doing?"
Oh. He's taking all of the books and putting them in the laundry hamper.
I actually have no problem with that.
The library looks like a clear-cut. Five shelves, and there's only one book left.
You only need one.
I grab it and start reading at warp speed, side-eyeing Buster as the binky bobbles precariously on his-- FUCK me it's out again.
WAAAAAAAH!
I read three of the shortest books we own because Chicken won't actually pick a book for me to read.
Seriously, one is a baby color book that has one picture and one word on each page.
This is me:
(picture of a duck) "YELLOW."
(picture of a fire truck) "RED."
(picture of a frog) "GREEN. Okay, the end, good night."
I get Buster out of the crib and put him on my boob. Chicken is demanding one more story and to be fair, that last one was pretty thin plot-wise. So I get one more book, sit back against the crib with Buster on my boob literally sucking the life out of my body, and hold up the book over my head so Chicken can see the pictures while lying in his crib. (I have never been more aware of the fact that I do not belong to myself anymore.)
Buster pops off the boob.
WAAAAAAAH!
Chicken: "Shit? Brother?"
Me: I can neither confirm nor deny... wait... Chicken, what is on your pajamas?
Chicken: Chicken? Poop?
Me: Are you saying that you pooped on the front of your pajama shirt?
Chicken: Yeah! Ketchup poop!
Me: Is it poop or ketchup?
Chicken: Yeah!
I check his diaper. He is lying. He has not pooped. And there is no ketchup in Chicken's room. That I know of.
But that doesn't solve the mystery of what the holy hell is on his pajamas. It totally looks like poop and oh right he did just roll around in the soggy mess of his own feces, and is it possible that I missed a nook or cranny while I was wiping him down with seriously no less than 30 wipes? Not just possible but damn fucking likely, I'd say.
I check his hands and feet. I check his legs and chest. No poop.
I check Buster's hands and feet. No poop.
I wipe the crib bars down with my bare hands to see if a phantom poop has been secreted by a new poltergeist in our haunted Graco Lauren crib. Nothing.
So okay. The working theory here is that he did in fact poop... buuuuuut he pooped just a little, through his nipples and/or belly button onto the front of his pajama shirt.
Or... ketchup.
Yep, I can live with that.
WAAAAAAAH!
Whatever. I pop Buster back on the boob and finish the book. I sing Baa Baa Black Sheep like four times, bouncing up and down to soothe Buster, then I turn off the light and go to the door, trying to plug a still-fussing Buster with his binky as he stink-faces me and wails. Chicken is crying as I close the door behind me.
OK so to recap:
Massive drippy shit on no less than 3 surfaces in Chicken's room.
Screaming infant.
Library denuded.
Mystery shit-and-or-ketchup-like substance on pajamas that nope, I sure didn't change.
Crying toddler.
And the moral of the story is:
Right here is where I become a woman.
Buster is in Chicken's crib, lying on the Boppy, wrapped in a blanket. He's sound asleep.
I have lured Chicken into the bedroom with the siren call of "It's binky time."
I got this. Buster will stay asleep. Chicken gets a diaper, jammies, 3 stories, and a soothing rendition of "Baa Baa Black Sheep." I'll take the still-sleeping Buster out of the crib, lay him on the floor, put Chicken in the crib, give him a kiss, tuck him in, collect Buster from the floor, and lights out. Boom.
Oh yeah. I got this.
Why is Chicken's butt damp? Oh. It's poop juice. Chicken has a blowout.
And oh. The diaper genie is full.
Buster starts to whimper.
If I try to cram the diaper into the full diaper genie I will just get shit all over my hands. FOOL ME ONCE, diaper genie. So the shitty diaper goes on top of the diaper genie. Close enough.
Buster starts crying.
Chicken is trying to roll over on the shit-smeared diaper changing pad. I am holding him down using my actual muscles and not caring that using actual muscles to restrain a 2-year-old might make me a child abuser in some states.
I croon "Baby Beluga" while wiping poop juice off of Chicken's back, legs, and feet. Note to self: no more grapes for a little while.
Buster is now wailing.
"I HEAR YOU BUSTER!" I coo over the sound of his screams. "I HEAR YOU SWEET BOY! I HAVE TO FINISH CLEANING SHIT OFF YOUR BROTHER AND THEN I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!"
Chicken: "Shit? Brother?"
Me: "YEP! Shit brother. Did I stutter?"
Buster: WWAAAAAAAH!
Chicken: "Shit? Stutter?"
Buster: WWAAAAAAAAAH!
Me: "Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea..."
I get Chicken's pajamas on and set him down on the ground. "Go pick a book for mommy to read, sweetheart!" I say, making a leap across the room to plug Buster with a binky. Aaaaah. Silence.
Whoops, he spat it out.
OK, back in. Aaah. Silence.
Shit, back out again.
Seriously, it's amazing how well this binky works! It's back in and he's quiet as a--
SON OF A!
Now I am standing over a 2-week-old using my actual hand muscles to hold a binky in his mouth while he makes the stinkiest of all stink faces. "I KNOW you want Boob Milk but I have to give Chicken some attention right now or... wait... what is Chicken doing?"
Oh. He's taking all of the books and putting them in the laundry hamper.
I actually have no problem with that.
The library looks like a clear-cut. Five shelves, and there's only one book left.
You only need one.
I grab it and start reading at warp speed, side-eyeing Buster as the binky bobbles precariously on his-- FUCK me it's out again.
WAAAAAAAH!
I read three of the shortest books we own because Chicken won't actually pick a book for me to read.
Seriously, one is a baby color book that has one picture and one word on each page.
This is me:
(picture of a duck) "YELLOW."
(picture of a fire truck) "RED."
(picture of a frog) "GREEN. Okay, the end, good night."
I get Buster out of the crib and put him on my boob. Chicken is demanding one more story and to be fair, that last one was pretty thin plot-wise. So I get one more book, sit back against the crib with Buster on my boob literally sucking the life out of my body, and hold up the book over my head so Chicken can see the pictures while lying in his crib. (I have never been more aware of the fact that I do not belong to myself anymore.)
Buster pops off the boob.
WAAAAAAAH!
Chicken: "Shit? Brother?"
Me: I can neither confirm nor deny... wait... Chicken, what is on your pajamas?
Chicken: Chicken? Poop?
Me: Are you saying that you pooped on the front of your pajama shirt?
Chicken: Yeah! Ketchup poop!
Me: Is it poop or ketchup?
Chicken: Yeah!
I check his diaper. He is lying. He has not pooped. And there is no ketchup in Chicken's room. That I know of.
But that doesn't solve the mystery of what the holy hell is on his pajamas. It totally looks like poop and oh right he did just roll around in the soggy mess of his own feces, and is it possible that I missed a nook or cranny while I was wiping him down with seriously no less than 30 wipes? Not just possible but damn fucking likely, I'd say.
I check his hands and feet. I check his legs and chest. No poop.
I check Buster's hands and feet. No poop.
I wipe the crib bars down with my bare hands to see if a phantom poop has been secreted by a new poltergeist in our haunted Graco Lauren crib. Nothing.
So okay. The working theory here is that he did in fact poop... buuuuuut he pooped just a little, through his nipples and/or belly button onto the front of his pajama shirt.
Or... ketchup.
Yep, I can live with that.
WAAAAAAAH!
Whatever. I pop Buster back on the boob and finish the book. I sing Baa Baa Black Sheep like four times, bouncing up and down to soothe Buster, then I turn off the light and go to the door, trying to plug a still-fussing Buster with his binky as he stink-faces me and wails. Chicken is crying as I close the door behind me.
OK so to recap:
Massive drippy shit on no less than 3 surfaces in Chicken's room.
Screaming infant.
Library denuded.
Mystery shit-and-or-ketchup-like substance on pajamas that nope, I sure didn't change.
Crying toddler.
And the moral of the story is:
That's why you never
ever
even in your own head
say that you got this.
And also, beer.
And brownies.